Song for a Winter's Night
by VampirePam
Summary: In which Lestrade asks a question, and Mycroft has to reconsider his stance on snow.


The park was nearly deserted. Most of London's citizens appeared to have retreated to their own cozy abodes for the evening; even in his fleece-lined overcoat and wool scarf, Mycroft couldn't blame them.

He bundled himself a little tighter against the chill and called out, "Greg?" The snow swirled around him in miniature vortexes, whipping at the edges of his scarf and bottom of his coat. When he located his erstwhile partner, they would be having words regarding his choice of meeting locations.

"Greg?" Mycroft sighed and read the text message for the third time:

_Regent's Park, just north of the Gardens, 8:00 p.m. Do come - I promise to make it worth your while._

In the face of a mystery unsolved, Mycroft Holmes did the only proper thing - he deduced. _Park at large sparsely populated, specific area completely abandoned. Ground appears uniformly undisturbed, except for a single path of footprints leading just behind that - _

His deductive processing was rudely interrupted by the arrival of a weaponized sphere of snow impacting his left shoulder, accompanied by a cheerful cry of, "Catch!"

"Gregory!" Mycroft brushed two gloved hands down the front of his overcoat, trying in horror to dislodge the snow. "Please tell me you did not drag me from my perfectly heated flat at this hour of the evening simply to accost me with frozen projectiles!"

"No," Lestrade scoffed, stepping out from behind the shelter of the pine tree. "I mean, not exclusively."

"Well, I hope you've had your fun, because I will now be returning to a warm flat, good Scotch, and dull book. _You_ may stay here." Mycroft had just turned to go when a gloved hand caught his and tugged him back.

"Come on, My," Lestrade pleaded, swinging around to block his path of retreat. "Don't be like that. It's the first snow of the season!"

"Yes, and it can be the last as far as I'm concerned." Mycroft looked suspiciously at the snow still clinging to his sleeve. "Besides, all the more reason I should be at home monitoring the progress of the fine men and women this government employs to keep us all safe from this icy invader."

"You're sure, then?" Lestrade was up to something - Mycroft could tell. He only ever had that lilt in his voice when ulterior motivations were stirring within him.

Still, Mycroft's desire to retreat to warmer climes was enough for him to play along, replying simply, "_Quite_."

Lestrade shrugged and glanced skyward. "I was going to take you to your surprise, but if you're _sure..._" He began to toe his way through the snow toward the exit.

Now it was Mycroft's hand that shot out. _So close...and yet so far. _He let out a wistful sigh before asking, resigned, "What surprise?"

The grin returned in an instant as Lestrade squeezed his hand and tugged him along. His voice was barely concealed glee. "Come on!"

Mycroft was about to protest being conveyed in such an ignominious manner when his attention was stolen by a strange tableau. Somehow, in the carefully manicured chaos of the park, stood a remnant of its ancient past - a perfect circle of trees. At the very center were two facing figures, both made entirely of snow.

He regarded them curiously, the gears of his mind turning one click at a time...until they stopped. Until the small, black box perched on the shorter snowman's "arm" had them grinding to a halt.

The breath caught in his throat. "Greg...this isn't...I mean, you're _not_..." All his lingering doubts were soon erased by the sight of Gregory Lestrade on one knee in the snow, holding up the box's twin, this one containing a ring.

Lestrade's grin metamorphosed into something brighter, more sincere, and ever so slightly nervous. "Surprise." He gave a little shrug.

For an instant, the sweep of wind over snow lulled time itself to sleep. Mycroft took in the captured scene, from the icicle-lined trees, to the two meticulously crafted snowmen, to the extraordinary man kneeling before him, hope dancing in his eyes, with nothing less than wonder.

The world awoke again to Lestrade's voice, faltering only a little: "Mycroft Holmes, will you do me the honor of becoming my husband, to have and to hold, for as long as we both shall live?"

Mycroft willed the gears to start turning again, but they remained at a standstill. He stood there, frozen, speechless. It took everything he had to send Lestrade a nod of affirmation.

Judging by the ring being slipped onto his finger, and the warmth of Lestrade's body pressing against his, however, it had been enough.


End file.
